I was talking to someone the other day and somehow, drawing came up. Everyone who knows me is aware of my passion for food, but there are other things about me that have fallen by the wayside since having kids. I felt a tiny prick of grief when I realized that drawing is no longer a part of my life to the extent that someone would be surprised to know that I ever did it. And, not for the first time, I took a look at my life and asked myself, when the f*** did that happen?
As a teenager, drawing was a way to stay sane. Alone in my room, I could say whatever I wanted to say in a language of my choosing. This is a drawing I did of a paperback cover for
Fahrenheit 451, but for the pages of "armor" I chose my own texts and kept a running list of authors as I worked on it. I started this when I was 17. Eleven years ago. When I pulled out my tablet this morning, I found an expired moth among the pages. A place I used to go on a regular basis has become such a ghost town that living things go there to die.
Oh dear.
It took four years, but we finally finished the master bedroom. Noticing that we had an "extra" room on our hands, I decided to jam my drafting table into it. It was kind of a disaster and Aaron eventually came home and fixed it, but the point is that now I have an established space to get all dramatic and creative again. I'm curious to see what will come out of me now that I'm not driven by huge amounts of teenaged angst; then again, I've got plenty of parenting angst, but somehow that particular brand feels less artsy. Perhaps if I stop locking myself in the bathroom with chocolate, I might actually finish a drawing.
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